


Out of Time

by Sherlock_And_Me



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, Master of Death (Harry Potter), Morally Grey Harry Potter, Slightly insane Harry Potter, Some Scifi elements (but only in the first few chapters), The Deathly Hallows, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 07:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15990452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock_And_Me/pseuds/Sherlock_And_Me
Summary: Once upon a time an evil genius threw his life away in search of immortality. Harry Potter is sent back in time to make sure that doesn't happen, but not for any altruistic reason. In fact, the once boy-who-lived his highly discouraged from trying to "save" anything more than Voldemort's life. The future needs Voldemort around long enough to solve a riddle and stop the destruction of everything, the wizarding and muggle world be damned.Basic Harry Potter goes back in time to save Tom Riddle but with a twist.





	1. At the End

The ancient wizard with the lightning-bolt scar was shackled to the stone slab. He only had a thin nightshirt to protect him from the chill of dusk and the even colder stone underneath. The old man tried to lift the manacles wrapped around his wrists and ankles but the metal was so heavy his wizened limbs could barely rise an inch.

The coven of 13 robe wearing people huddled in a lose circle around the stone chanting:

‘Tom Marvolo Riddle. Lord Voldemort. Surrectus sit. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Surrectus sit. Lord Voldemort. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Lord Voldemort. Surrectus sit'

The old wizard could roll his eyes upwards and just see the bottom of a silver mask on the robed figure that stood at the top of the stone slab. This person chanted a more complex verse in an even more ancient tongue. The old man’s hearing might be going, but the string of softly spoken words reminded him of an earlier time. He had to smile a toothless grin despite the darkness the intonation invoked.

As the chanting started to reach its final crescendo, a grey mist crept in around the coven creating formless shapes that grew and leapt over their bodies. When it reached the wizard, he felt a tackiness slither into his skin like his veins had been replaced with spider-webs. It wouldn’t be long now.

There was a glint of light, as the one with the silver mask lifted an equally silver knife catching the last rays of the sun that could barely be seen from behind the clouds. A long twist of curly red hair came loose from the hood of the robe as the final words of the spell were spoken and the knife was raised over the wizard's sternum.

Not keen at staring death down, again, and more than a little uncomfortable with the bumps of the stone slab jabbing into his back, the old man looked around at the other chanters. There was one dark haired man who looked pretty green at the sight of the knife and faltered in his chanting. The wizard only gave him a reassuring smile and couldn’t help but think how young the chanter looked. But then again, everyone always looked young to him.

As the knife came down, piercing his heart, the remaining mist surged forward to fill the wound. The dying wizard let out one last gasp as he gazed up at the smoggy sky and tried to remember what stars looked like.

***

Static filled Harry’s ears and it felt as if a large boney hand had grabbed and hurled him through an abyss at speeds that made even the broom flying pro nauseous. Sometimes if he pried his eyes open and looked really fast, he imagined he could see a white train station zoom by, not that he could ever figure out how to get there.

There was always a moment as he soared through the veil of life and death when time ceased to exist and there was nothing. And in this moment, or no moment, or all moments Harry would know fear and he wondered if this was finally it, the end of the line for him. His stomach would drop out - if he even had a stomach, or a body, or mind. But how could he think if he didn’t have a mind? He never figured out an answer to that either. 

The free-fall always ended the same with Harry faced down in a forest with a mouthful of dirt. Sometimes the static faded quickly and he could hear what he thought was the dry rustling of someone or something laughing as he sat up and spat the dirt out. 

He rubbed his now youthful chest where he could still feel where the giant boney fingers had touched. The ancient/young wizard’s mind always shuddered and shut out concepts too hefty for a mere physical being to comprehend. He could only see less than a fraction of 1% of the light spectrum for Merlin’s sake, let alone understand what being the ‘master’ of a being as old as the first living soul meant.

He took stock of himself. He was naked, as always, left to grope around in the leaves looking for the elder wand in his nearsightedness. Physically he felt better than ever, but… there was a void inside. It always felt like something vital was scrapped away with every, ah- trip. Sometimes it took decades for the wrongness to fade.

He found the resurrection stone first and twisted three times unconsciously. 

“Hey mate,” a transparent elderly Ron greeted him. 

“Hello Harry,” an equally old and see-through Hermione echoed. She gazed around the forest floor thoughtfully. “The wand is by your left foot and the cloak is almost by the tree line on the right.”

“Thanks ‘mione,” Harry grunted before scrabbling up to the wand and quickly conjuring glasses and clothes while enjoying the feeling of limberness of his movements. “Think it worked this time?”

The elderly Hermione shook her head. Her stern gaze could’ve shamed even Professor McGonagall and Harry smiled at the thought. Maybe he would call up his old teacher to chat. It had been what? 40ish years since he last spoke to old cat.

Resurrections always brought his earliest memories to the forefront. Overtime they would fade, but Harry tried not to think of that as he basked in idea of magic castles, moving staircases, and fireplaces next to comfy chairs. 

“You better hope not, Harry Potter,” Hermione tsked, making Harry think fondly of Mrs. Weasley, home cooked meals and lumpy sweaters. 

“What you are attempting is too dangerous. Voldemort could destroy both the muggle and wizarding world,” Hermione snapped bringing Harry’s attention back to the present. Ron was shaking his head as well; always ready to agree with his wife.

“I know, you’re right,” Harry lied giving his old friends a sad smile before looking up through the clearing in the forest. It was well into the evening on what was supposed to be a full moon, but the smog overhead was so thick neither the stars nor the moon could be seen. “But we had to try.”

No matter how much Harry or the world changed, his friends always stayed the same. That’s what being dead did to a person. 

“It did not work, Harry Potter,” a deep voice answered from high up. Harry looked around until he spotted Magor, the last centaur on earth standing on the edge of the clearing, towering over Harry at his 8ft in height. “Sometimes even with magic, a broken cup cannot be made whole.”

Magor’s hide, mane and beard were peppered with grey hairs. He too also gazed at what should’ve been the night sky. Harry got caught up in a memory of being in this forest in an earlier time with a different centaur. It felt like yesterday when he heard the words ‘Mars is bright tonight’. But then Harry was struck to realize Magor had probably never seen a single star or planet in his lifetime. What must that be like for a centaur?

“The others are coming,” Magor stated absently, never looking at the wizard. 

Sure enough, Harry could hear the sound of footsteps and laughter getting closer. Robed figures flitted though the trees calling out to each other. It sounded as if they had started an impromptu game of tag. The young man from earlier - and Harry realized that the man really was young and not just young compared to him - burst into the clearing looking around enchanted. 

“Mr. Potter,” he gasped before striding over to touch the bark on an old gnarled oak barely giving the two spirits a second glance. The hood of his robe was pushed back and displayed messy black hair. Maybe this was one of his descendants? It was so hard to keep track. “Is this really what trees look like?!”

“Yes, idiot,” drawled the silver masked red-headed woman from earlier. She emerged from between the trees; her hands were still wet with Harry’s blood. 

She switched out the silver mask for a gas mask and tossed a second one at Harry. 

“Everyone put their gaspers on; we’ve got to get back. The wind is picking up and you won’t like what it’s bringing towards us,” she ordered, her voice sounding artificial through the filter.

Looking forlornly at the vegetation, the young man pulled his own gas mask out from under his robes and began to ask, “But what about-” 

The red-headed woman held up a hand to stop him, “Team two has the equipment. We couldn’t have them closer to all the magic without frying the machinery. They’ll save as much as they can before all this dies.”

The woman leaned towards a tree to study a flower studded vine wrapped around the trunk. She delicately touched a petal before noticing the blood on her hands and hastily wiping it on her robe.

“At least something good will come out of this fucking waste of time,” she grumbled under her breath. 

Ron walked over to her and placed one transparent hand slightly above the woman’s shoulder. 

“Cheer up, niece,” Ron consoled. “You’ll find a solution without needing old Moldywarts, just you wait. You’re a smart gal.”

Out of all the remaining pure-blooded families, only the Weasleys had lasted. Not the Malfoys or Longbottoms or Lovegoods, just the Weasleys. 

“Yes, great uncle,” the woman sighed; long having given up explaining how distant her relationship was to the man (great uncle x100+ should not be considered a close enough relationship to put up with his patronizing attitude). “We only had the Master of Death consult every possible Dark Lord, spell-crafter, and genius throughout time to come up with a way to resurrect someone who destroyed their soul using Horcruxes. That was our last best hope and it failed.”

“Hey now, a Gryffindor doesn’t give up,” Ron protested.

“I am not a Gryffindor. No one has been a Gryffindor in over-” snapped the woman, running her hands through her hair “-why am I even arguing with a dead man? Potter, must you keep these two ghosts out all the damn time?”

Harry froze from where he was bending down to pick up the invisibility cloak; his heart was suddenly beating too fast. He stood up and looked wide-eyed at the woman, the resurrection stone clenched in his hand.

“Umm…” Harry began eloquently. Hermione moved closer to him, eyeing how his free hand kept twitching towards the Elder Wand stashed in his pocket. 

“You’ll have to excuse Dr. Weasley,” Magor retorted in a booming voice while giving the red-head a sharp look. “I’m sure she doesn’t begrudge you the company of your two oldest friends, especially considering you just died - again.”

Dr. Weasley was cowed enough to look away before responding in carefully measured blandness, “Of course, I apologize. You can have whomever you want with you, Mr. Potter.”

“Anything we can do to ease your time, Mr. Potter,” Magor stated emphatically, staring directly at Harry for the first time. “Let us know.”

Harry was the first to look away, kicking the dirt, and unsure of why he felt so unbalanced. 

“I’m fine,” he replied tersely. Hermione hovered worriedly by his shoulder. “Back off a little ‘mione, you’re crowding me.”

The spirit unwillingly took a step back. Harry could be so volatile after dying. Usually it took her and Ron several evenings of talking about the good old days before he started to act more like himself again. Last time he died, over 200 years ago, it took a solid week. And there was that terrible dark time, centuries and centuries ago, when it took decades for Harry to remember himself. 

In the distance, crashing noises and heavy wheels could be heard dismantling the ancient forest that had appeared only when the now 17 year old Master of Death did. The remaining young and old humans stopped their play in the only forest any of them had ever seen to gather in the clearing. Harry ignored them all in favor of stretching leisurely. 

He thought about using the elder wand to show them even more wonders of the now long dead world he grew up in, but then the machines would break, the plants would die in the poisonous wind, and Hermione would scold him again about thinking things through. So he did nothing.

“Come,” Magor’s booming voice broke Harry out of his musings. “There is much work to be done.”

Confused, Harry looked back at the aging centaur who was once again staring unseeingly at the blank sky.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked slowly. “I thought that was it, last roll of the dice and all that.”

“There is one more thing we can try,” Dr. Weasley, the last pureblood on Earth and direct descendant of Percy Weasley (and probably all of the most powerful 21st century wizarding families), added breaking into the conversation. She had pride in her expression, but also a weariness that etched deep lines into her skin. She looked much older than Harry now. “We need you, you're the only one who can do it.”

“What’s new?” Harry responded cheekily. Hermione rolled her eyes behind him. 

With that, the strange company of 13 robed wearing humans, 1 Master of death, and 1 centaur all wearing gas masks marched back towards the compound with two spirits trailing behind. They walked through the new ancient forest, past the stone slab with the corpse slowly being dissolved by the dark magic forced on it, and towards the buildings underneath a giant dome. 

Some of the foundations of the buildings might still hold a few stones that belonged to a once great castle.


	2. Master of Death: A History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bare with me while I work through this plot bunny! The action won't really start until we get to the past.

Earth was dying. 

In fairness, Earth had been dying for a lo-ong time. The cleverness of the planet’s craftier inhabitants didn’t allow this to stop them from anything. The goblins, veelas, merpeople, wizards and muggles lived, died, created and destroyed. Governments were formed, governments were overthrown, wars were waged, and people always rebuilt after.

Harry Potter had seen it all.

The first time he died of old age (surrounded by his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren) he had been shocked to find himself in the forbidden forest with the lost resurrection stone in one hand, the no longer destroyed elder wand in the other, and the invisibility cloak that had been entrusted to a particularly persnickety great granddaughter wrapped around his shoulders. 

By the 10th death it was old hat.

Sometimes he folded himself back into the lives of his friends and family like nothing happened, never mind the stares he got at his now youthful face or concern over the three Deathly Hallows. (They could be destroyed and they could be taken from him, but no one else ever became the Master of Death and they always reappeared after Harry’s deaths. Harry had far too much firsthand knowledge to doubt those truths.)

Sometimes he would hide or reinvent himself. There were ages where the name Harry Potter was just a legend. His true power equally built up and dismissed as rumors. He was the King Arthur of the wizarding world, the once-and-future-boy-who-lived who would return only when most needed.

Predictably, that part of the myth turned out to be true. Harry never could fully overcome his “saving people” thing and couldn’t help be pulled into the great struggles of each age. But as the time went on, the enemy wasn’t always who he thought it would be. Life and people had a way of surprising Harry, no matter how old he got.

Sure, there were your average emerging Dark Lords, pureblood fanatics, and power hungry corrupt government officials. And everyone predicted the turmoil caused when the statute of secrecy finally failed. Harry spent a few tedious generations putting out fires when the two different worlds collided. 

But there were other times Harry never saw coming. Like when the muggles and magical creatures had to work together to overthrow a tyrannical Wizarding world. Or that time when an unexpected surge in magical abilities (caused by a new type of cell phone tower of all things) had wizards and witches fearing their own children, putting them under Dursley-like control, and wasn’t that heart-breaking? Or when certain pureblood wizards meet certain neo-alt-right muggles and what an unholy alliance that turned out to be. People had a way of coming together in the oddest of alliances when new threats appeared.

Of course, there was that one time after Harry’s dark period when he decided he knew what was best and took over, well, everything. (A now destroyed muggle military didn’t like the existence of an immortal, near all powerful, busy-body sticking his nose into everything and decided to find a way to end or enslave the Master of Death. After they captured Harry, they killed him 107 times over the course of 30 days. No one talks about what happened to those people after Harry’s inevitable escape.) 

Everyone had to ban together and it still took 100 years before Harry was finally overthrown. Even then, it was Harry’s growing horror at what he had done that let him fall into the drama of a new prophesied child and he more-or-less stepped aside.

With the world still healing from him, Harry retreated for a long time with only the company of the spirits he summoned with the resurrection stone. Hermione, his brave and loyal best friend (and still the smartest witch he knew even in death), encouraged him to stop feeling guilty and start researching. ‘You keep beating yourself up for why you became so violent, but maybe you’ll find the answer if you figure out why you stopped.’

He called up dead friends, enemies, and experts in both wizarding and muggle fields, told them his story and heard the analysis of hundreds. It was only when he died of old age again (this time with no one but the dead around him) when truth revealed itself. 

He woke up in the forbidden forest young and not feeling guilty at all. In fact, one might claim he was incapable of the emotion. After a day, when thoughts of the people he killed started to make him uneasy, he killed himself (‘for science’ he explained to a worried Hermione) and he woke up again without a care. He repeated his experiment, still talking to his experts, until he could go a week without feeling a shred of remorse. 

‘It’s your soul,’ a 23nd century Unspeakable finally postulated. ‘Your resurrections damage your soul and only with time and-’ with a side glance at Hermione and Ron ‘-close relationships with all the emotions those entail, can you heal.’

‘So like Voldemort,’ stated Harry sickened before laughing dryly in a way that almost sounded like crying. ‘Horcrux or Hallows, I guess the difference isn’t that great.’

But he stopped killing himself. Fear is an emotion that is unaffected by the state of one’s soul. 

While he was away, the planet that had been trudging along finally decided it had enough. With over-population, wars and depleted resources (magical and mundane) there simply wasn’t enough left, so people had to leave. The colonies on Mars and Jupiter’s moons became the only hope for the future. It was after the last unicorn died that the Wizarding community came to this conclusion as well and almost immediately realized a horrible fact.

Magic only existed on Earth.

You could take a group of Wizards and Witches to the moon, but as soon as they left the atmosphere their wands didn’t work and they might as well be muggles. With a global catastrophe impending there simply wasn’t enough time to figure out why Earth was special and everyone knew from Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration that food couldn’t be made from thin air. 

Within a decade the population needed to be reduced to a tenth of what it currently was by will or Earth would do it by force. At least on Mars, with all the muggle terraforming, one could breathe the air.

The Malfoys were the first prominent wizarding family to announce they were leaving. ‘Blood over magic’ they stated, they wanted their children to have a chance. Goblins were largely unconcerned with the loss and ended up thriving in excavated underground cities on any planet or moon. Merpeople worked with muggle scientists to change their genes so they could survive under the ice on Titan. Werewolves were thrilled and colonized the moon out of spite. Someone smuggled dragon eggs to Mars, and the now non-fire breathing and non-flying giant lizards quickly became a pest species. 

Not everyone made it. Large swaths of people died, house elves faded, and the population of giants were mismanaged into extinction because they were simply too inconvenient. Harry helped where he could but always from the shadows.

The colonies were strained by the influx, but in the darkest hour, when everything seemed like it would be lost anyways, people prevailed despite the odds. Life leveled out again as a new normal was found. The smaller population on Earth was left to try to fix the poorly treated world or at least preserve its history.

Harry took his chance at a normal life and death and departed on one of the ships. It didn’t work the way he expected. 

He woke up once again in the same forest on Earth with no memory of what happened after the ship reached space. He ventured out into the world and confirmed that Harry Potter did indeed reach Mars where he lived out a life before dying (surrounded by children and friends once again). He started to leapfrog the ages like this, leaving the dying planet and waking only to find decades or centuries had passed (trying very hard not to think about what would happen when there were no more ships).

He had only been on Mars for five years on his latest trip when he found himself waking up in the same old forest with a red-headed wizard standing over him.

‘I apologize for the necessity of bringing you back to Earth so abruptly,’ the man who looked like Wealsey stated (Harry would find out later that the man was a Weasley, a Doctor Wealsey as it were. There was apparently a line of pureblooded Wealseys who remained on Earth and chose to study muggle sciences of all things. People never stopped being interesting).

‘Did you have me killed on Mars?’ Harry asked incredulously after deciding it would be prudent to use the elder wand to tie up the red-head and check the date with a quickly murmured ‘diem’ rather than conjure clothing.

The man bristled and his stiff upper lip twitched as he resolutely looked anywhere but the naked youth. Harry was secretly impressed the red-head had the gall to look so put upon especially considering what happened the last time someone murdered the Master of Death. 

‘Yes, well, it couldn’t be helped,’ Weasley stated curtly. ‘We need yo-.’

The man was cut off by the gag that appeared in his mouth. 

Harry trailed the Elder wand through his fingers, wondering what he should do next. Eventually he remembered his promise to himself to talk to Hermione and Ron first before making any major decisions on Earth. They were like his personal Jiminy Crickets.

With clothes and a comfy chair newly conjured, his old friends securely by his side and appraised of the situation, Harry was ready to hear whatever new way the world could surprise him. He studied the man one last time, removed the gag, and motioned for him to speak.

‘This should be good,’ Harry muttered, folding his hands under his chin. He was slightly miffed that Ron had beaten him to the punch by placing a bet that the man was related to Percy someone. Harry had retaliated by stating with those ears, Ron must be the ancestor.

The man coughed and glared, looking pointedly at the rope still wrapped around his body. When it became obvious Harry had no intention of fully releasing him, he straightened up as much as he could in his bound state with his chin held high.

‘We need your help, Master of Death,’ he stated firmly. The true state of his nerves only showed when he paused to swallow once. ‘We must speak with the one once known as Lord Voldemort or everyone will die and all of history will have been for nothing.' 

'That was unnecessarily dramatic,' snorted the ghostly Ron by the side of Harry's chair. 

'I assure you, I do not give into dramatics,' Doctor Wealsey snapped at the spirit.

'There is something beyond our solar system coming that destroys everything in its path. Our experts in the magical and mundane world have studied it for over 1,000 years and our best knowledge of it still comes from three passages written in a journal of a Dark Lord that lived over 5,000 years ago. So you can see how that is a problem.' He explained before his ire faded and he sagged in the ropes. 

Turning a pleading look towards the Master of Death, the man continued, 'Mr. Potter - Harry, I'm begging you. It will be here within 300 years, we are out of time.’

Harry had not been ready for that surprise.


End file.
